He Works Silently
by Cheetz
Summary: Michael and Liz. They work together but they don't know each other. Other characters from show also included, I don't own anything though. Except this keyboard... PG for now.
1. Default Chapter

Date – 4

Date – 4.20.01

Title – He Works Silently

E-mail address – [Cheeta614@earthlink.net][1]

Rating – PG (for now)

Category – Angsty, I suppose

Summary -- Michael and Liz work together (but not at the Crashdown, some other food place). They don't know each other and Liz is awfully interested…angsty good feelings ensue. 

Author's notes— I was actually inspired to write this by my own experiences at work. 

Prologue

He works silently. Every now and then he lifts his head up and looks at me. My back is turned, but I feel it. I'm trying to take someone's order. It's difficult now. 

His arms are placed in front of him, resting on the counter. That's how they always are now, ready to lift off and go do more work. But this time, he doesn't. He just stares at me. Watches me flit from the kitchen to the back to the kitchen. Watches me take orders, smile politely. I watch him, too. I think he knows that. I watch him take back the dishes, talk with other employees, take people their food. 

I walk to the back and put the silverware container on the counter. He is right next to me, staring at me, so I offer him a small smile. He blinks. I turn back around and just before I push the door open to go back to the kitchen, I turn around and see that he is staring at me, again. I push open the door. 

He never talks to me. But it's so much easier that way. I talk to Brendon and Karen. Sometimes I'll even say 'hi' to Felipe. But I never talk to him. We like to avoid each other. I wonder what it is about him as I refill the ketchup bottles. Why I feel so intrigued by him. He slams the clean dishes down on the counter, startling me. I jump, but he doesn't even look up. He just puts the dishes where they belong and I continue on refilling the bottles. 

When I catch him staring he doesn't look away. 

It's awful. 

It's wonderful. 

It's only the first night. 

I go to talk to Lindsay. Anything that gets me out of dealing with him is annoyingly wonderful. I wonder if he's as messed up about me as I am about him. Lindsay doesn't even notice my lack of attention. She's laughing about something now, and I'm smiling along with her. But then I see him, leaning against the counter top. He's watching the game on TV. I try to think 'typical,' but instead I am mesmerized.

Another customer walks in, so I go take their order. That means passing him by. I'm staring at him, cursing myself, telling myself to look away for the second we're in line. But I don't. And—he's not even looking at me. Damn. I knew it. The customer is dissatisfied now. Something about me needing to be 'a little more polite.' Um, yeah. I turn back around and he's looking at me. Is that a smirk? No. He doesn't even know what the lady said to me. But he's looking at me again. The lady is waiting for her change. My smile brightens; my eyes perk up. She's happy now; I'm polite again.

It's getting pretty late, now. Tomorrow I'll come back and—I don't even know if he's working tomorrow night. I don't even know his name, yet, so I can't check the schedule. He's watching me in the back room. I pull my hair loose, letting it fall back and forth. He licks his lips. I glance his way, but quickly avert my eyes elsewhere. I can't look at him anymore. He'll attack me.

I punch my card. Thirty-one hours in two weeks. My paycheck won't be quite so humiliating this time. I wonder how many hours he has on his card. He walks up to me, a smile on his face, one of the first, actually. I'm so used to seeing his smirk. He reaches over me, and although I'm losing it, I stay still. The machine makes the punching sound, but it's going in slow motion. I should just grab his arm and say something. He slides his card slowly back into the holder. I can't breathe.

Just hold on.

He squeezes past me, and lightly brushes against my arm. I fight the urge to turn around against him. Just one more minute. Why wouldn't I just move? I put my foot out, and suddenly walking is much easier. 

Outside, the air is crisp. My car has been collecting dew, and is most likely freezing inside. I hear a noise and turn around to examine the area behind me. There he is, coming to his car. He doesn't notice me yet. I purposefully kick a rock on the way to my car and glance back again. He's looking up, that smirk still playing at his lips. 

I have "trouble" getting the car door to open. I don't say anything to him, but he comes over to unlock it for me anyway. He does some magical trick with his hands, and the door flies open. I watch amazed, intrigued. Why won't he talk to me? He looks at his hands for an awkward moment. He finds my eyes eventually, and I offer the same smile from earlier. He shrugs. It's better than a blink I suppose.

He goes the long way around my car, careful not to come to close. His door opens easily, and he's gone. I realize I'm still standing in the cold, watching his break lights get smaller.

***

   [1]: mailto:Cheeta614@earthlink.net



	2. 

Chapter One

Chapter One

The past few weeks have been hell. Everything seems to be going wrong. Everything at work is suddenly my fault. To add to it, I haven't seen him since that first night. I wonder if he even works here anymore. 

A customer walks up to me, places a dollar bill on the counter, and asks for change. I absentmindedly give him too little. He yells. I get him the rest of his change, and feel my manager's eyes burning holes in my new pink work shirt. Where _is_ he? 

I hear the rattle of the door. Great, another customer. I'm surprised as hell because it's him and some other guy. He's wearing street clothes. He's here as a customer. Duh, I think. A tall, brunnette orders their food, and flirts with me. But I try to catch _his_ eyes. I still don't know his name. Like a friendly employee I smile at the brunette, and—finally—he looks up. At me. I direct my smile his way and he stares at me.

In fact, his gaze is somewhat curious for once. Like he's amazed that I'm smiling, or doesn't understand why I'm smiling. His eyes are brighter tonight. That makes me happy. He grabs the table number and walks off to join his buddies. I watch him walk away, choose a table that's not in my line of sight, and proceed to the bar for beer.

I'm disappointed. He's going to drink and not stare at me. I wonder where he got that fake ID. And why doesn't the manager care? Every time I walk by his table I don't feel him staring. Instead, his gross friends are oogling, perverted bastards. Why can't he just say hello?

Luckily I choose to go on break for the hour that he's here. Maria joins me, so I know I have to pay attention to her, and not him. He has hardly recognized my presence this entire night, and I suppose it has to do with that fact that he's not required to in any way. His friend can't seem to get enough of staring at Maria and me. Ugh.

I get up to return back to work, and I catch his eyes on my way by. He's buzzed. His eyes are red, watery. His face is pale, clammy looking. So much for that, I think.

I reach the register. The girl I'm working with takes her break, and talks to him. Why can she and not me? It's no matter. The minutes are going by so slow. It will be tomorrow by the time I'm off. I turn around, and he's there, talking to the cooks. They're his friends. I'm not. He still doesn't glance this way. But I'm in no mood to make a spectacle of myself. I'd much rather not exist to him.

Somehow time has sped up. Closing time is here. He's just leaving as well. His eyes are still blood-shot. When I say goodbye he just stares at me again, that bewildered look on his face. Does he not understand me? I wish he could. I wish he just would. My manager stops him to talk to him. This is my chance. I hurry to clock out, and it's funny how without him there clocking out with me it goes by much faster. 

I run out the door, and see that his dark friend has already left. They drove separately? He's coming from the front of the building, and I'm taking my time reaching my car. I let a small slip of paper fall behind me. I hope to God that he's a gentleman enough to pick it up for me. Even if all he is, is a mixture of smirks, glances, stares, confused expressions; I still hope. His boots tread on the concrete, providing a comforting scraping sound. He's still there. 

He exhales slowly as he bends down, and I hear the rustle of my paper. My stupid little paper with Alex's number scrawled on it. He clears his throat and I can't help but face forward. Now what? He whistles lightly, trying to get my attention. I nonchalantly turn around, still walking. Can't he even use my name? Or is he as pitiful as me? He stops walking, and holds the paper out in front of him, at arm's length. He's waiting, and suddenly doesn't seem nearly as faded as he did earlier. It _has_ been a while, I suppose.

"Oh," I say. I trudge back to him, my legs heavy, my breath matching them. He eyes me curiously again, sizing me up, I suppose. I reach him and take the paper. He turns to leave, having done his part, and something in me snaps.

I grab his arm. 

His head shoots around, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. I'm scaring him; what am I doing? I release my grip and eagerly stuff the paper in my pocket. He shakes his arm and turns again. No doubt I've freaked him out. I can't help but sigh loudly. I'm standing in a parking lot, feeling defeated. I just grabbed him. 

His steps are small, hesitant, slow. Why? He keeps stretching his fingers, cracking his knuckles. He's trying to calm down. Sober up. I can't tell which. He hears me sigh, and his step falters, his boot scrapes the concrete again. With my sigh I turn towards my car, knowing full well my door better not have any trouble tonight. 

What if he's hoping it does? 

My steps are not nearly as small as his. In fact, I think I'm in a hurry to get out of there. I sniff. It sounds like I'm crying. Great. Now he thinks I'm pathetic beyond compare. I must not hear his steps nearing mine over the hurried shuffling of my own two feet, but I feel his hand on my arm, abruptly turning me around. 

I'm giving him the same look he gave me moments before. Horrified. What is going on? But I'm not entitled to it, so I quickly wipe the look off my face. I'm like a stone wall. My face is blank, probably making him quite uncertain. I look down for a split second. I notice that I'm late to getting home.

But it's not that important anymore.

"You're welcome," he manages to choke. 

"Thanks." That's all I can really say. He spoke to me, and not only that, it was something polite. My car is a foot away. I could leave now and everything would be fine. I don't have to melt into his burning stare. It's much more intense the closer I am to him. Those teasing arm-brushes and staring contests from across the restaurant are nothing.

It's awfully strange, the overwhelming drive to throw caution to the wind. I want to do that right now. With him so close, it's almost inevitable. I feel myself wanting to lean into him. No one has to know.

My keys rattle against my thigh, subtly reminding me that I have a home to return to. His hand is burning my arm, so I pull away slightly. He lets go. This is incredibly stupid, I think. But, I don't think he cares. Neither do I.

He's genuinely smiling at me now. He seems happy with our progress, albeit nearly nothing. I resist the need to cup his face, resist the want. He's handsome. 

Never date at work.

We don't have to _date_. 

He's looking down now, and he's…he's moving closer to me. Out of instinct I back up. Oh, _God._ I'm up against my _car._ He leans in very close, to my left. My hands fumble in front of me, twisting and turning. My breath catches as he nears my face. What is he doing? Our cheeks are nearly touching and I slam my eyes shut. Maybe it's not happening. His breath is so hot against my ear. I'm ready to slide down the side of my car and die. 

I feel his left hand rest on my hip. Whoever knew that'd be so exhilarating? My breath speeds up. All he has to do is something. 

"Goodnight," he whispers. My eyes are still shut. I don't want to open them, not now. His hand leaves my body, and I let a soft whimper escape. I don't even think he heard it. Cold air surrounds me, and I'm jolted awake. I open my eyes and he's gone, in his car, down the alley. 

My hands are clutching something. Paper. I frantically unfold it. It's that paper with Alex's number on it. It must have fallen out again. 


End file.
